He leaves, and for the first time since he arrived, I feel like I can fully breathe. I still hold Ember and neither one of us seem to want to pull away. I think if we do, it means we have to face what happened and neither of us are ready for that moment. I don’t want to have to look her in the eyes. I don’t want to have to see my reflection which I can only imagine appears like a monster.
“I don’t blame you,” she mumbles against my chest as she seems to press herself even closer. “I know that wasn’t easy for you.”
If this had been an hour ago, I would be pushing her to help me escape. Demanding that she see the man she calls Papa Rich as the fucking sick perverted man he is. Frustration would be growing in me at her lack of action. I would want to strangle her for not seeing the way I did.
But not now.
Now, I understand. I get it.
I will never blame Ember again. I will never expect this broken child trapped in a woman’s body to be whole. She’s splintered, and I can see that. I can feel that. All it took was one taste of the man’s poison for me to fall into her deep and dark hole myself.
I understand.
“I’m so sorry, Ember.”
I close my eyes and inhale deeply. I smell strawberries.
I kiss the top of her head and squeeze her tighter; not for her but for me. I can’t think. I can’t plan. I can’t plot a way out. All I can do is smell strawberries in the wisps of her blonde hair.
10
Ember
Conviction.
Papa’s conviction is thick like blood. I can see he has no intention of letting Christopher ever leave Hallelujah Junction. And though I know that fact to be true, I still have no idea what he has planned for us. When do we get married? What happens once we are? I have so many questions but no answers.
I want to ask him. I should be able to ask him. I’m his daughter, and yet I fear him now. He’s not the same. Or maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m seeing him through Christopher’s eyes rather than my own.
If Papa Rich knew the thoughts I have been thinking…
He can never know. Never.
But today I choose happiness. I stir the batter of the cake I have been wanting to make for Christopher since day one and focus on joy. I use the last of our sugar and flour, but I know Papa is going into town for supplies today and I added them to the shopping list. I don’t always get everything I want, but if I don’t ask, then I have no chance of getting. Usually Papa is willing to give me the essentials for baking, but not always.
“Now what do I see here?” I hear the question behind me, and I instantly tense and breathe from my nose. I don’t want to smell him. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want Scarecrow here.
But he’s here. It’s been four days since his last visit, but I shouldn’t be surprised. He always has Papa Rich get supplies from town for him.
“I’m baking a cake,” I say, not breaking from stirring in hopes that he sees I’m busy and leaves me alone.
He hobbles to where I’m at, by the sink, and leers over my shoulder at the bowl of batter. No matter how hard I try not to, I smell feces. Scarecrow is dirtier than normal, and his stench is overwhelming. Without warning, he dips his filthy finger into the batter and puts it into his mouth.
“What a treat,” he says as he licks his finger clean of the raw cake. “Who’s the cake for?” His hand is crusty, scaly in brown and yellow flakes.
My heart sinks as my stomach churns. No way can I serve Christopher this cake now. It’s contaminated with the touch of Scarecrow. I’d rather feed Christopher poison than to feed him the disgusting grime of the man standing inches from me.
The cake is ruined.
“For you,” I lie. “To thank you for agreeing to marry Christopher and me.”
In the corner of my eye, I see Scarecrow beam a toothless and decayed smile.
“For me?” His voice is pitched higher than normal. “I’ve never had a cake made just for me.” He leans closer to the bowl and inhales. “My very own cake.”
I can’t stand the air I breathe for another second, so I walk across the room with the cake batter and make it appear like I’m looking for some ingredient in a nearby cabinet. I’ve yet to look Scarecrow in the eyes, and I hope to keep it that way. My hope is he will leave due to my lack of engagement.
“I’ll have it ready for you when Papa Rich comes back with your supplies this afternoon,” I say, trying not to grieve what should have been Christopher’s cake.